Sansara: A Tale of Two Women (but not really)
by Raven Blanchard
Summary: A Song of Ice and Fire is a thinly veiled Holocaust story that spares none of its protagonists, in which the role of the faceless killer is played by an entire social system. Sansa Stark remembers a much better life - a much better world - and swears on her honor that she would fix her broken realm. (SI/OC as Sansa.) (M because any GOT-related fic should be.)


The sun is shining bright the day the eldest Stark daughter decides - a half-finished embroidery of a direwolf in her hands, cool Northern breeze blowing through her rust-coloured tresses - that she has had quite enough of needlework, thank you very much. It is an unremarkable after-noon by her House's reckoning she is certain; without so much as a single thieving finger chopped off since the day began, or a beheading, or a wildling attack to fend off, even. The last is an honestly surprising truth, given the savages' near-obsessive penchant for killing, raping, and theft; they never seem to do much besides. Truly the day has been nothing but boring, so much so that the mind-numbing tedium of it all might have actually made it quite remarkable after all.

Lady Sansa Stark - eldest daughter of the Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell - has been stitching for the better part of the day, and pondering the utter _stupidity_ of needlework being a "valid" ladylike pastime, whilst belting out half-remembered songs that no one else knows. Her latest is a hauntingly beautiful melody - it has always seemed so to her since she first heard it from the woman who had birthed her once but never at all - of a love found and lost, of hope lost and yet treasured forevermore. It is all very romantic and emotional and whatever else courteous people may call a song about a love that encompasses death. One might think she must be feeling quite somber to sing such a sad song, however if asked Sansa would merely admit to feeling dread and dread alone, admit that her one reason for singing is to delay the Septa's inevitable "lesson" on The Faith (just _a_ faith, truly, and not even a very inspiring one at that).

Sansa is well aware and entirely unashamed of her voice's mesmerizing quality, and has no qualms whatsoever in using it to her nefarious purposes. Though no other soul is to be aware of such, if Sansa has anything to do with it. She has met the septa but a day ago - she remembers the woman's name being "Mundane" or something or another - and already she knows that any further "lessons" with the woman would be exercises in patience, boredom and blatantly sexist propaganda.

 _A lady must excel in needlework_ , the septa drones.

Stupid embroidery.

It is easily enough done, mind, for she does not lack for hand-eye coordination, but oh, it is so terribly _boring_! Her steady hands can surely be used for much better pursuits, such as swordfighting or... or _archery_!

Sansa supposes she envies her little sister Arya the freedom of running around in breeches, of swinging wooden swords and learning to shoot arrows to her wild little heart's content. She envies Arya, no matter that it was Sansa herself who advised the younger girl to undertake said activities. They are apparently "improper" pursuits for a Lady, Sansa has been told repeatedly since her toddling days - much to her initial surprise and eventual indignation.

 _A Lady does not fight with_ swords _but with_ words _, a Lady must always be at her most beautiful, a Lady does not act so_ uncouth _, a Lady does not stomp but glides, a Lady_ never _wears breeches, a Lady is seen but_ not heard _, it is a Lady's duty to her lord husband to bear and rear his children, a Lady must be ever-faithful to her husband, and to Hells with her husband actually being faithful as well, for the children borne from such unholy unions will be bastards with nothing to their names anyway..._

It seems that women _here_ are nothing but humanoid broodmares in pretty dresses sold as chattel for the perverted whims of rich old men. And that would be if a woman is "fortunate" enough to be highborn, "lucky" enough to not be raped by strangers near daily like the lowborn. "Lucky" enough to not have to sell their body to survive another day. …Although perhaps all women in this world are paid to have sex - lowborn and highborn alike, one way or another. It is just the form of payment that differs, be it a few silvers, or Myrish silk dresses gilded in the purest gold.

She cannot help but remember her world Before, where women can take up a craft wholly unrelated to breeding (or embroidery) if they so wish, where men can wear _dresses_ if they so wish, where pre-ordained marriages and all non-consensual things in general are frowned upon.

The Before makes so much more sense, she thinks. The Now is so narrow-minded it is nearly unreal how society functions at all when so much sexism, classism and racism abounds. She finds it quite surprising that the Realm hasn't imploded in itself yet, with it being so full of discrimination and sex crimes. And poverty. Then again, she's not entirely certain a society that caters only to rich highborn combatant males would qualify as a functioning one at all. Not unless "society" is defined as a never-ending string of pointless feuds and cock-measuring wars. In that sense, she supposes, the Realm is not functioning at all.

…No wonder the millennia-long technological stasis. She beadily eyes the embroidery in her hands, and steels her resolve. To the Hells with "propriety" and "ladylike" activities. She cares not if the ladies of the realm wish to waste away their days stitching and tittering like mindless halfwits. She would not.

"Septa Mundane, I am exhausted." she murmurs, quite peacefully might she add, and stands up to leave, nearly throwing the half-done embroidery aside in her haste. Sansa Stark is plenty patient – has been patient enough to be _canonized_ , were it possible in this wretched, twisted world – but even the most patient woman would have patience that runs out. "I shall retire to my chambers."

"Lady Sansa!" The septa cries, sounding quite scandalized. Sansa realizes that she truly could not care less. It cannot be so scandalous to be tired after sewing for _hours on end_. And lady or not, she surely could not be _duty-bound_ to make another kerchief when she has just finished making her _fifth_. That would be utterly ridiculous.

Hence, Lady Sansa Stark pays the Septa no mind and keeps walking. Her thoughts are occupied by the trunk by her bed. Within it is something that would change the world.

oooOooo

 **A/N: I'm kinda into this plotbunny. By the way, the song that Sansa was talking about was the Irish song "Danny Boy". I can go on and on about how hauntingly painful and beautiful it sounds, but you really have to hear it yourselves to judge. Try listening to it while reading the lyrics!**

 **Please tell me what you think!**

 **Q: What do you want to see in the next chapter?**


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